


Among The Emerald Graves (Ace-Friendly)

by solasharel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Animal Death, Asexuality, Death, F/M, Hunters & Hunting, Violence, ace friendly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 06:12:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2762609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solasharel/pseuds/solasharel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After taking a wrong turn in the Emerald Graves, Nyriel Lavellan, Solas, Dorian and Varric decide to make camp for the night before getting their bearings. A small comment earlier in the day makes an interesting theme for the rest of the evening, even when Solas and Lavellan get some time alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Among The Emerald Graves (Ace-Friendly)

**Author's Note:**

> You can find a translation for the song at my tumblr at this link:
> 
> http://solas-harel.tumblr.com/post/104968286296/this-is-the-song-from-my-fic-among-the-emerald

They had been marching through the Emerald Graves for hours. This was their next mission, as it were, after Halamshiral. Despite being only a few days since Empress Celene's ball, it felt almost an eternity away, Nyriel thought. The bruising on various parts of her body reminded her otherwise. With each stride she could feel the aching in her thighs, and she had tied the black scarf around her neck to stop the purple-red mark from showing too badly. Varric had raised an eyebrow at the start of the trip, and she had muttered back a brief story about a lack of pockets and needing to wipe her brow with the Summer heat. It had barely been enough to appease his intelligent mind, but he hadn't added any more questions. Solas, meanwhile, had looked on with enthusiasm and silent amusement.

The woodland here was truly stunning to behold; hours upon hours of greenery – the trees so tall that they obscured the sun in most parts, save for a few glimmering pools of light. They were here to aid a human named Fairbanks. He had sought out the Inquisition for help after hearing of their work with securing peace among the monarchy. He and a few other deserters from the civil war were having trouble with Red Templars in the area, so they had been traipsing through the trees to seek out any signs of malicious activity. All day Varric and Dorian had hacked through the under-brush whilst Solas and Nyriel wandered a few yards behind, deep in conversation about all things ancient and forgotten.

 

“So you're saying that the giants here once possessed magic?” She quizzed him on every detail of the Emerald Graves, clearly fascinated by the strong elvhen connections here, and whilst feigning exasperation he secretly revelled in indulging her every curiosity.

“Indeed,  _lethallan_ , for I would not believe it myself had I not seen memories of such a time in the Fade.” He smiled at her, a glance that lingered perhaps a moment too long judging by the cough at the head of the group.

“Uh, Chuckles, I think we may have taken a wrong turn at that last statue,” came Varric's voice. The four of them quickly surveyed the area, and fears were confirmed as even Solas' face clouded, his brow furrowing. The forest was dense, and light was draining quickly from the afternoon sky. A single wrong manouevre now could land them all in even further trouble. Taking the silence as a loss of strategy, Nyriel handed her staff to Solas – who noted that she still had her temporary tattoos springing from her wrists - and began to scale the cliff to the right of the path they were taking. Her small bare feet tucked neatly into the nooks and crannies of the rock face, and within moments she was pulling herself up over the edge. Solas supposed that this lifestyle in the forests had suited her immensely well among the Dalish. He knew also of their fear of her, a powerful mage even by a Keeper's standards, and of her isolation among them. It was little wonder that she should be so adept at traversing this landscape, when she had spent some much time getting away from her Clan. She turned around in a circle slowly, a hand to her eyes, before calling down to them.

“If we follow along a little further we can make camp, there's a river nearby for water. Tomorrow we'll head back and try the other path.” She hopped down, her arms swinging her from one ledge to the next before landing virtually soundless on the ground. She enjoyed being a part of the forest again. To feel the grass and mud between her toes and hearing the symphony of flora and fauna around her. Although it was the height of Summer, the trees broke the heat from their backs and faces and they were relatively cool. Even so, the climbing and walking left her feeling grubby and drained and she looked forward to a wash once they were back in Skyhold. She took back her staff and began to lead ahead of Varric and Dorian towards their makeshift destination, with Solas following a few feet behind. He vaguely heard a comment from Dorian about “...Lone Wolf” and shrugged it off. Where better to be than somewhat alone in the forest?

 

It was almost another hour of walking before they found somewhere safe to settle. There was little sound here save a waterfall babbling in the distance,and the ground looked even and clear of any pests. Varric was the first to pitch a spot, placing his bedroll near some bushes and then starting on gathering nearby wood. He was curious to camp with in that he liked his privacy, and much to Solas' disappointment would adamantly refuse to be situated anywhere near the rocky cliff that they had followed, and provided shelter should the weather turn. In heat such as this, Nyriel thought, it would be unlikely to happen. Dorian immediately elected to stay and get a fire going, leaving Solas and Nyriel to gather something eat.

They headed out West from the camp making sure to leave markers for their return. Solas poked every other tree they passed with an icy finger, leaving a snowflake frosted impression on the trunk. They would have a roughly an hour to return before they melted, Solas told her, and they pushed on farther from the camp, the sun setting before them. As they lost sight of the camp, they set up a position on a grassy bank. They lay still on their fronts, wait for any sign of movements. Nyriel's belt-roll of small daggers was laid out next to her, and she twirled one between her fingers as they settled down and watched in silence. Solas checked his pouch of herbs and made a mental note to gather some elfroot from these parts while he had the chance. He found the taste much improved in the shady climate of the forest.

They did not have to wait long. A lamb, young and separated from its group, hesitantly stepped into view. It was only small, but it would feed them for the night, and the wool and skin was always appreciated. She held her breath as it came closer to them, its head lowering to chew at the plants. Her eyes and ears were trained on the animal, calculating the speed and position of the throw all within an instant. Solas cast her a sideways glance, watching almost in slow motion as her hunter's focus propelled the lone dagger from her nimble fingers and forward through the air, her icy-grey eyes glistening with the thrill of the hunt as the sheep dropped to the floor. Just like that, Nyriel bunny-hopped onto her feet, collecting the roll of daggers and heading into the glade, scratching at her mess of short brown curly hair. She had been growing it since starting the Inquisition, and complained regularly at having cut it in the first place, though she would not disclose her reasons for having done so. There were many conversations about the possibility of using magic for hair design, but Solas laughed and had apologised, for there was none he knew of. He set out behind her to retrieve the kill, hitching the dead lamb around his shoulders. Nyriel cleaned the blade on her clothes before adding it back to her collection and fastening them to her belt. Before they set back, Solas kissed her forehead, a silent thank-you, not daring to taint this moment of respect for their hunt.

Solas' markings were just visible in the near-darkness, making it a short walk back to camp. Varric spotted them first, a cheering silhouette from the fire. Dorian was examining the maps they had brought with them, still trying to discern which landmarks they could be near.

“That's a clean kill you got there, Pipsqueak, remind me not to get on your bad side,” Varric teased, and Nyriel's cheeks deepened a little in colour. She was not used to such compliments, but she accepted them gracefully. Dorian looked up and smirked, the image of Solas with the animal still resting around his neck catching his attention.

“Now when I say you should spruce up your outfit, I didn't mean for you to dress like.. that,” he commented, before adding, “frankly, you look a bit of a Lone Wolf in sheep's clothing.” The pun, resurfacing from that earlier half-heard comment, immediately sent the other three travellers into fits of laughter, and Solas' face darkened as he set the carcass on the ground. He slunk around the fire to oppose Dorian before taking a seat and fishing a small book from one of his pouches.

“Why a wolf, exactly?” He asked after several moments.

“Oh, well, wolves chase little lambs, don't they?” Dorian replied, casually glancing at Nyriel. She seemed not to have noticed, or at least made no indication she had, but Solas' cheeks reddened slightly, and he looked down at the pages, struggling to find the focus to read.

“Very well,” was his eventual close to the subject.

Nyriel sat in the light of the fire and began to gut the animal, tossing the offal into the edges of the blaze to roast. It would make a suitable lunch for tomorrow if they got stuck for rations. Solas was already busy cutting up some vegetation he had been gathering through the day, adding seasoning to a variety of roots and other things. Most of them Nyriel recognised, though she could not remember their names. Varric meanwhile was tucking into a hip flask of ale he had with him, penning out another letter for one of his side-businesses. Dorian was laid on his bedroll, his feet perched on a rather aptly placed stone at one side, humming to himself.

As she cleaned up the skin, leaving the wool intact, Nyriel sang to herself. She was often singing about Skyhold, never loud enough for anyone to hear, but in the quiet of the camp her voice trilled out into the night like a lost nightingale.

_“_ _ Hal’vunin dar’uthen _

_ Adahlen’in, _

_ Da’len eneran, _

_ Halla dar’min. _

  
  


_ Elvhenan enansal, _

_ Sahlin sulahn _

_ Fen’Harel manathen _

_ Na bor’assan _

  
  


_ Mahvir abelas him, _

_ Ma dareth din. _

_ Fen dar’harel, vhenan, _

_ Isala lin. _

  
  


_ Hal’vunin dar’uthen _

_ Adahlen’in. _

_ Fen’harel sulahn’nehn, _

_ Mahvir na’din.” _

  
  


Her voice trailed softly at the end, faltering back into humming whilst she poked at the almost roasted meat of the lamb. She became keenly aware of Solas' eyes upon her, dark and shining in the firelight.

“How did you come by such a song,  _lethallan_?” he enquired.

“It is one my Clan has sung at the season of the Great Hunt for as many years as I can recall. The wives sang it to their husbands before they left, uncertain of their return. After all, not all those who hunt among the wolves get to taste the lamb. It isn't my favourite subject but I enjoy the tune.” Her answer seemed to sate his curiosity for the moment, a simple hum passed his lips before he looked once more into the fire. Evidently the song stirred something in him, though she could not quite place the emotion on his face. Whatever it was, it sank him deep into his own thoughts, and she let him be. Perhaps he would have something to add later, she thought.

 

After they had finally eaten they huddled at the fire for any last vestige of warmth. Dorian and Varric succumbed to the cooler night air much faster than Solas and Nyriel, who had been accustomed to a life of living under the stars. It was Dorian who first called it a night, bowing dramatically to the party before making his way off from the fire. Varric stayed for the time being, gently prising conversation from Solas, who had remained subdued all evening.

“C'mon Chuckles, her singing isn't that bad,” he joked, “I mean, really, you should hear Hawke after a few drinks. That woman wails like a cat in a drain.”

Solas gave a flicker of a smile at that sentiment, and not wanting to seem impolite he chose to close his book and join in the conversation.

“It is a very old tune, though the words have somewhat twisted through time. I was not aware that the lyrics had changed to such a degree. Another legacy of the Dalish, I suppose.”

Nyriel huffed; for all that she disliked the way the Dalish had treated her, they were still her ancestors, and her kin.

“With so little of what we had preserved, we have done the best that we can, Solas. In time, and with Corypheus defeated, I hope to turn my attentions to retrieving whatever we can find about the truth of my people. I have no doubt there will be some parts we dislike, but that is the way of these things, isn't it?” She almost mimicked him when she spoke sometimes, and he could never decide if it irked or pleased him. She had no idea of the power of her words, of how she would go on to shape the world even as just a young woman, an apostate no less. She looked him dead-on, her eyes blazing with the firelight, and for a second he could see the people of Elvhenan within her. As tempestuous as he had once been.

“ _Lethallan_ , your wisdom never ceases to surprise me. You would willingly accept that parts of your culture are wrong, in order to learn the truth? You would undo centuries of faith and tradition to see the world the way it once was, even if the consequences of such a wish could cripple the people you share your ancestry with?”

“I believe that we only understand a hair of how our civilisation once was. It is for the greater good that we understand where we went wrong so that we may move forward. As we are, with every passing generation we fall a little further into the Abyss. I couldn't bear to think of a future where the elves don't know of Arlathan. Where they can't speak elvhen, or forge ironbark into great weapons or artwork. The answers are out there, somewhere. I will find them, and I will make my people see, even if it hurts. They deserve to know.” She sighed, and picked up the skin of the lamb. “I apologise, I didn't intend to ramble on. I am going to clean the skin at the river. Sleep well, you two.” She picked herself up, and walked off in the direction of the running water, folding the skin of the sheep between her arms. Varric took his cue to get some rest, whilst Solas watched her walk away with silent wonder. He stood up himself and followed behind her.

“That was certainly an interesting opinion,  _vhenan_ ,” he spoke quietly, catching up to her. He took the skin from her arms, resting it once more over his shoulders. He seemed to like the idea of carrying this creature, and it amused Nyriel to see him in such a natural setting.

“It was wishful thinking, really. If those answers, the chance of saving what remains of the people really existed, wouldn't we have found something by now? There is just something about the forest here, it feels heavy with sadness; it makes me lonely,” she confessed, and never before that moment did he understand her motivations more deeply. He stopped her just short of the river, pulling her around to see him, bathed in dappled moonlight and sporting the pelt of her kill across his broad back, and he kissed her softly. She savoured every moment of it, the way his lips brushed gently before planting themselves against hers; how she felt every beat of his heart through them, and how he placed his forehead against hers in a way that made her feel so safe and small even in the open forest. She cupped one side of his jaw with a small hand, and kissed him in return, feeling the electricity of his magic fizzing below the calm surface of his skin. Her other hand searched for his, and found it, and for what seemed an eternity they stood barely apart, hands entwined, thumbs circling around each other, her temple pressed to his cheek. She loved both these sides to Solas; his whole-hearted devotion to her in times like this, where he would almost seem to bow to her in reverence, and the way that he could possess her so completely, her body laid out in worship of him.

It was Solas who broke their embrace, his eyes flickered with desire, though he made no immediate gesture towards her.

“Would you allow me to enlighten you on an ancient Elvhen tradition?” he asked her, gesturing to the dyed patterns on her forearms. She nodded, looking at them as he spoke.

“I have seen young maidens, no older than perhaps yourself with these markings in the Fade, for as long as memory. I remember once, a spirit showed me a woman who received hers at a time of great happiness, for she was to be married. Her clan believed that she had the power to choose her husband, the tattoos giving her exalted status among her people, and she had time until they would disappear to seek him out. They took her to the Arlathvhen, decorated in flowers and her hair worn low so that she may best find her match. She was a woman who directed her own fate, much as you are. It was a pleasant surprise to see you wear them at Halamshiral,  _vhenan_.” His hand stroked at her hair, eyes watching her as she took in the information. When she looked up at him, her eyes bowled over with tears, teeth chewing at her lower lip.

“This woman.. what did she look like?” she whispered.

“Spirits only show what is attached to the emotions of the memory, not the image as it happens in reality, I'm afraid. But I do know that they spoke highly of a man known as Marnen.”

“Marnen... it's been so long since I have heard that name...”

“You knew of him?” This peaked Solas' interest. How odd that such a memory could relate to Nyriel.

“Marnen... was my father's name. He died in the Great Hunt when I was just a babe.  _Mamae_  spoke of him fondly, and it was her that taught me these designs. She told me that  _Papae_ 's spirit lived in them, and that he would protect me from the Hunt. Halamshiral felt like a Great Hunt, and so I painted them. I never knew they were for betrothal. Thank you, Solas.” She sniffed, wiping her nose on her sleeve. He squeezed her hand, and kissed her forehead.

“The song reminds you of him..” He concluded, and she nodded. The impossibility of her was too much to bear sometimes. How could they be so connected, so fated in this way? At every turn it seemed the Fade itself had pushed them together.

Nyriel broke his thoughts with a tug on his arm, and they carried on their short walk. He kept her hand in his and they walked to the river's edge, both barefoot. They paddled, the cool water eliciting a sigh from Nyriel. He couldn't resist her in this moment, her eyes almost as bright as the moon itself, wistful and gentle and kind. Before she was even truly aware of his movement he was kissing her intensely, hands reaching behind her ears and fingers raking through her hair, his tongue dancing along her lips and begging to be let in. She felt her knees buckle slightly under the force of the kiss, her lips parting in both surprise and wanting, and he nipped her lightly along the corners of those perfect pink frames, not caring for the dangers of being so open in the forest, of being caught by Varric or Dorian if they had followed. He sucked at her bottom lip, and she gasped and moaned quietly, her tongue dancing just as they had at the Winter Palace. She plucked up the courage to kiss him back they way he did her, teeth tearing back at him, and the lewd moans that they encouraged from him did nothing to stifle her impending arousal. He clawed at her, demanding all of her, murmuring “ _ ar nuvenin ma” _  but she could taste a hint of something metallic and drew back. They stopped for a minute, his hands tucking back around her small ears, when she noticed the small sheen trickling from his lip.

“Solas, I think...I may have bitten you a little too hard..” she winced, uncertain of his reaction, but he touched at the dampness on his face and laughed softly.

“A dead sheep around my shoulders, and now my mouth sports blood. I suppose I really  _am_  a wolf in sheep's clothing,  _ma lath_.” She giggled at his jubilant mood, wiping her thumb against the stain and removing it in a swift lick. She cleaned her thumb without much thought, sucking it to remove the blood, only realising after what she had done. Solas stared, curious that she would be so ready and willing to accept every part of him down to his own blood. He dropped the lambskin from his shoulders and embraced her.

“Who's afraid of the big bad wolf?” She grinned.

“You should be,  _ma'vhenan_..” his words almost growling as he bent to kiss her once more, forgetting about the sheepskin entirely.  No doubt there would be rumours back at camp, not that he cared.  For now, at least, he had her alone and they could be free of the whispers and the disapprovals.  After all, why would the Inquisitor settle for a mere hedge mage?  He smirked, knowing how it truly felt to be a wolf in sheep's clothing.  


 


End file.
